The generation born in 1970-1976, so promising and so promising. Whose start was so bright and whose life was so wasted. May our dreams of a happy future rest in peace, where everything should have been different... R.I.P.

...I can’t afford to have a book with the title “Combat Attacks” lying in the back seat of my car " or "Special forces are getting in touch." I don’t watch “Brigada”, I don’t like Russian rock, I don’t have Seryoga’s CD with “Black Boomer”. I read Houellebecq, Ellis, watch old movies with Marlene Dietrich. And I spent my first money not on a four-year-old baby, like the boys, but on a trip to Paris.

And I am bursting with tenderness and romance of the situation, and I feel good, like in childhood, when my mother sheltered me, sleeping, with a blanket. And it seems to me that the scales have swung. And that cup of them, filled with pieces of good, fragments resting somewhere in the depths of me, went down, outweighing all my nasty things, which seemed dominant until tonight. Or is it all just me?